Lois Bujold - Barrayar

Henri’s brows rose. “How jolly for him.”

“Not really. He’s chronically short of cash, and always looks worried. But he can’t decide which wife to give up. Apparently, he actually loves them both.”

When Dr. Henri stepped aside to talk to an old man they saw pottering around the docks about possible boat rentals, Droushnakovi came up to Cordelia, and lowered her voice. She looked disturbed.

“Milady … how in the world did Sergeant Bothari come by a baby? He’s not married, is he?”

“Would you believe the stork brought her?” said Cordelia lightly.

“No.”

From her frown, Drou did not approve this levity. Cordelia hardly blamed her. She sighed. How do I wriggle out of this one? “Very nearly. Her uterine replicator was sent on a fast courier from Escobar, after the war. She finished her gestation in a laboratory in Imp Mil, under Dr. Henri’s supervision.”

“Is she really Bothari’s?”

“Oh, yes. Genetically certified. That’s how they identified—” Cordelia snapped that last sentence off midway. Carefully, now …

“But what was all that about seventeen replicators? And how did the baby get in the replicator? Was—was she an experiment?”

“Placental transfer. A delicate operation, even by galactic standards, but hardly experimental. Look.” Cordelia paused, thinking fast. “I’ll tell you the truth.” Just not all of it. “Little Elena is the daughter of Bothari and a young Escobaran officer named Elena Visconti. Bothari … loved her … very much. But after the war, she would not return with him to Barrayar. The child was conceived, er … Barrayaran-style, then transferred to the replicator when they parted. There were some similar cases. The replicators were all sent to Imp Mil, which was interested in learning more about the technology. Bothari was in … medical therapy, for quite a long time, after the war. But when he got out, and she got out, he took custody of her.”

“Did the others take their babies, too?”

“Most of the other fathers were dead by then. The children went to the Imperial Service orphanage.” There. The official version, all right and tight.

“Oh.” Drou frowned at her feet. “That’s not at all … it’s hard to picture Bothari … To tell the truth,” she said in a burst of candor, “I’m not sure I’d want to give custody of a pet cat to Bothari. Doesn’t he strike you as a bit strange?”

“Aral and I are keeping an eye on things. Bothari’s doing very well so far, I think. He found Mistress Hysopi on his own, and is making sure she gets everything she needs. Has Bothari—that is, does Bothari bother you?”

Droushnakovi gave Cordelia an are-you-kidding? look. “He’s so big. And ugly. And he … mutters to himself, some days. And he’s sick so much, days in a row when he won’t get out of bed, but he doesn’t have a fever or anything. Count Piotr’s Armsman-commander thinks he’s malingering.”

“He’s not malingering. But I’m glad you mentioned it, I’ll have Aral talk to the commander and straighten him out.”

“But aren’t you at all afraid of him? On the bad days, at least?”

“I could weep for Bothari,” said Cordelia slowly, “but I don’t fear him. On the bad days or any days. You shouldn’t either. It’s … it’s a profound insult.”

“Sorry.” Droushnakovi scuffed her shoe across the gravel. “It’s a sad story. No wonder he doesn’t talk about the Escobar war.”

“Yes, I’d … appreciate it if you’d refrain from bringing it up. It’s very painful for him.”

A short hop in the lightflyer from the village across a tongue of the lake brought them to the Vorkosigans’ country estate. A century ago the house had been an outlying guard post to the headland’s fort. Modern weaponry had rendered aboveground fortifications obsolete, and the old stone barracks had been converted to more peaceful uses. Dr. Henri had evidently been expecting more grandeur, for he said, “It’s smaller than I expected.”

Piotr’s housekeeper had a pleasant luncheon set up for them on a flower—decked terrace off the south end of the house by the kitchen. While she was escorting the party out, Cordelia fell back beside Count Piotr.

“Thank you, sir, for letting us invade you.”

“Invade me indeed! This is your house, dear. You are free to entertain any friends you choose in it. This is the first time you’ve done so, do you realize?” He stopped, standing with her in the doorway. “You know, when my mother married my father, she completely re-decorated Vorkosigan House. My wife did the same in her day. Aral married so late, I’m afraid an updating is sadly overdue. Wouldn’t you … like to?”

But it’s your house, thought Cordelia helplessly. Not even Aral’s, really …

“You’ve touched down so lightly on us, one almost fears you’ll fly away again.” Piotr chuckled, but his eyes were concerned.

Cordelia patted her rounding belly. “Oh, I’m thoroughly weighted down now, sir.” She hesitated. “To tell the truth, I have thought it would be nice to have a lift tube in Vorkosigan House. Counting the basement, sub-basement, attic, and roof, there are eight floors in the main section. It can make quite a hike.”

“A lift tube? We’ve never—” He bit his tongue. “Where?”

“You could put it in the back hallway next to the plumbing stack, without disrupting the internal architecture.”

“So you could. Very well. Find a builder. Do it.”

“I’ll look into it tomorrow, then. Thank you, sir.” Her brows rose, behind his back.

Count Piotr, evidently with the same idea in mind of encouraging her, was studiously cordial to Dr. Henri over lunch, New Man though Henri clearly was. Henri, following Cordelia’s advice, hit it off well with Piotr in turn. Piotr told Henri all about the new foal, born in his stables over the back ridge. The creature was a genetically certified pureblood that Piotr called a quarter horse, though it looked like an entire horse to Cordelia. The stud-colt had been imported at great cost as a frozen embryo from Earth, and implanted in a grade mare, the gestation supervised anxiously by Piotr. The biologically trained Henri expressed technical interest, and after lunch was done Piotr carried him off for a personal inspection of the big beasts.

Cordelia begged off. “I think I’d like to rest a bit. You can go, Drou. Sergeant Bothari will stay with me.” In fact, Cordelia was worried about Bothari. He hadn’t eaten a single bite of lunch, nor said a word for over an hour.

Doubtful, but madly interested in the horses, Drou allowed herself to be persuaded. The three trudged off up the hill. Cordelia watched them away, then turned her face back to catch Bothari watching her again. He gave her a strange approving nod.

“Thank you, Milady.”

“Ahem. Yes. I wondered if you felt ill.”

“No … yes. I don’t know. I wanted … I’ve wanted to talk to you, Milady. For—for some weeks. But there never seemed to be a good time. Lately it’s been getting worse. I can’t wait anymore. I’d hoped today …”

“Seize the moment.” The housekeeper was rattling about in Piotr’s kitchen. “Would you care to take a walk, or something?”

“Please, Milady.”

They walked together, around the old stone house. The pavilion on the crest of the hill, overlooking the lake, would be a great place to sit and talk, but Cordelia felt too full and pregnant to make the climb. She led left, instead, on the path parallel to the slope, till they came to what appeared to be a little walled garden.

The Vorkosigan family plot was crowded with an odd assortment of graves, of core family, distant relatives, retainers of special merit. The cemetery had originally been part of the ruined fort complex, the oldest graves of guards and officers going back centuries. The Vorkosigan intrusion dated only from the atomic destruction of the old district capital of Vorkosigan Vashnoi during the Cetagandan invasion. The dead had been melted down with the living there, then eight generations of family history obliterated. It was interesting to note the clusters of more recent dates, and key them to their current events: the Cetagandan invasion, Mad Yuri’s War. Aral’s mother’s grave dated exactly to the start of Yuri’s War. A space was reserved beside her for Piotr, and had been for thirty-three years. She waited patiently for her husband. And men accuse us women of being slow. Her eldest son, Aral’s brother, lay buried at her other hand.